


today i feel like i'm evolving

by svitzian



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, F/M, Guilt, Injury, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Secret Relationship, learning how to be in a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25986322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svitzian/pseuds/svitzian
Summary: Obi-Wan is hurt after a scuffle with the bounty hunters after the Duchess. It's not the first time, but it's the first time since everything has changed, and after seeing how it affects Satine, he tries to help her cope with it.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62





	today i feel like i'm evolving

**Author's Note:**

> another fic that came to me while playing subway surfers <3 i hope you enjoy

Satine is shaking, and Obi-Wan knows it’s not just from the cold.

How much Qui-Gon knows, Obi-Wan isn’t sure—but he thinks he understands, at least partially, if the way that he lingers by Satine’s side in saying his goodnight is any indication, or the way that he rests a hand on her shoulder, murmuring words that Obi-Wan can’t hear from across the fire. He knows how comforting having Qui-Gon’s hand on a shoulder can be from firsthand experience, but even that gesture doesn’t make Satine tremble any less.

Obi-Wan knows what might, but it’s not something he can offer right now, not with Qui-Gon still awake and lingering.

He’d tried to help her as much as he could, even knowing that the time for any _truly_ comforting help would have to wait until after they were meant to be asleep for the night. During the day, they maintain the façade of an uneasy peace, and for the most part, Qui-Gon seems to have accepted the fact that they’re no longer constantly at each other’s throats—but it’s better not to push things, not to give Qui-Gon any reason to suspect that they now mean more to each other than they allow him to see.

Obi-Wan _knows_ he cannot push things, knows that they have to be careful—but when he’d first noticed the way Satine was shaking, he hadn’t stopped to think before shrugging off his robe, luckily having the good sense to _offer_ it to her rather than simply drape it over her shoulders himself. Only afterwards had he realized how Qui-Gon might have seen his action, how he might have characterized it as overly generous of his Padawan, given that Obi-Wan still wasn’t especially _warm_ towards Satine, or at least pretended not to be in the light of day—but if Qui-Gon thought anything of the gesture, he hadn’t said anything about it, and Obi-Wan’s robe was still drawn tight around Satine’s frame.

For a while, he’d hoped that it would help, even if only slightly. Now, in the dim, flickering light of the fire, he sees clearly that it hasn’t.

Satine is still shaking, long after Qui-Gon retreats to his sleeping roll. She hasn’t stopped since it happened, and Obi-Wan hasn’t been able to do half the things he wants to do to try and help alleviate some of what she must be feeling.

She’s never been this shaken before, not even after the worst of their incidents, not even when she’s been blazed with blasterfire herself, or when she’s had the business end of a knife pointed at her throat, but if Obi-Wan thinks about that too much, the guilt in his chest will amplify too much for him to handle. He can’t think about how _this,_ of all the horrible things she’s endured, has been the one to leave Satine so badly shaken, so he doesn’t.

Instead, he does what he has to do, what they both know is necessary, and he waits—not as long as he usually does, just until he can feel his Master’s breathing evening out, until Qui-Gon has gone completely still where he rests a few feet away, and a quick glimpse into the Force tells Obi-Wan that he’s asleep. The moment he’s satisfied that Qui-Gon won’t be turning over and looking their way anytime soon, Obi-Wan is rising, stepping quickly around the fire to where Satine sits on her own bedroll so that he can kneel on the ground beside her, closing the distance between them in merely a few steps.

There’s a million things he wants to say, but up close, he can see the way Satine’s hands tremble, the way that her gaze, downcast, doesn’t even glimpse up at him, and his throat tightens beyond the point of speaking. Words don’t mean much to them, anyways—they’ve learned, by necessity, how to communicate without them, and Obi-Wan knows what whatever it is he would say, Satine already knows it.

Obi-Wan doesn’t speak, but instead reaches forward, enfolding Satine in as tight of an embrace as he can without suffocating her too much. There’s a moment where he’s afraid that perhaps that action wasn’t the right one, that what Satine needs right now isn’t simply a hug—but then Satine’s arms are around him, too, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes tight. 

How long it is that they hold each other, Obi-Wan isn’t certain. Neither speaks. Satine’s hands are trembling a little less where they rest on Obi-Wan’s back—at least, he _thinks_ they’re trembling less—and his own robe feels scratchier than usual under his fingertips, no doubt the result of months without a proper laundering. They hold each other a long time, all the same, but when Obi-Wan finally does pull away, finally decides that it’s time for him to get a good look at Satine, to finally begin to address what both of them would rather avoid, he regrets it almost immediately. Satine still isn’t looking at him, but Obi-Wan can see enough in the firelight, and what he does see breaks his heart.

Satine is _crying._

She’s never cried before—not in front of him, at least. She’s shouted, certainly, and gotten so red in the face that she probably could’ve cried from exertion alone. On one unfortunate moon a few weeks back, she’d sniffled plenty, when they’d all found out the hard way that the beautiful purple flowers dotting the moon’s surface boasted a pollen that aggravated the immune system of humans, leading to itchy eyes and sneezing that lasted long after they’d caught the next transport off-world. Sometimes she’s even screamed—not the screams of an argument, but wordless ones, when she wakes from nightmares that Obi-Wan has only recently been entrusted with the context of, and now that he knows what it is that she sees in her sleep… he can’t blame her for screaming, even if it used to annoy him that she’d potentially alerted any lurking bounty hunters to their position.

She’s done all of that, but she’s never _cried,_ and something in Obi-Wan breaks further at the sight.

“It’s alright,” he says, quickly, because he’s caught off-guard, and that seems like the most intuitive thing to say when someone is crying in front of you. His hands reach for her upper arms, trying to steady her, to pull her out of whatever dark corner of her mind she’s stuck in—“Satine, _cyar’ika_ ,” he tries, and the Mando’a is still clumsy on his tongue, given that he’s only learned it a week ago, and his accent is anything but perfect. It doesn’t make Satine’s tears stop, nor does it make her look up at him, so he tries again, swallowing down his own growing desperation. “It’s alright, Satine.”

Her lower lip is shaking some, jutting out in a horribly pathetic way Obi-Wan knows at once she must be ashamed of. She doesn’t speak, but shakes her head, and Obi-Wan knows, then, that his current approach won’t get him anywhere.

“Alright,” he breathes out, defeated. Swallows again. _Come on, Kenobi._ “Alright, it’s—it’s not okay.”

She’s still crying. Actually, Obi-Wan gets the distinct feeling that she might be crying _more,_ and guilt swells up in him anew. This was already his fault, and now he’s gone and made it worse—

“Ben,” Satine whispers, and her voice is so startlingly unlike her that Obi-Wan might have thought it were someone else altogether, if not for the name she used, _Ben,_ spoken so carefully. Her voice is shaking but somehow _firm,_ because even when Satine is falling apart, she still manages to have _some_ hold over herself, and Obi-Wan so envies her for that —“Can I see it?”

He should’ve expected this. He should’ve expected it, and yet that doesn’t make it any easier to handle.

Obi-Wan breathes in a slow breath. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Satine counters, this time finally looking up at him, and Obi-Wan is startled that her gaze can be so _piercing_ even through tears.

His heart beats a little faster. Time to change tactics again. “Satine, I…” He pauses, considers his words. They’re not going to have the effect he wants, but he can’t give up now, so he says them anyways. “It’s not that bad.”

That only sharpens Satine’s expression. “More reason for you to _let me see it.”_

Obi-Wan knows the look on her face. Even with her eyes red-rimmed, even with tear tracks down her cheeks, Satine is wearing that expression that Obi-Wan has dubbed _The Duchess_ —a look that tells him she’s not going to give up until she gets what she wants. Obi-Wan won’t win this one. He can’t.

He meets her gaze for one more moment, and then sighs.

“Alright.”

Satine’s hands twitch, like she wants to be the one to reach out and do the honors. Obi-Wan wouldn’t allow it even if her hands _weren’t_ still shaking, and he beats her to it, rolling up the sleeve of his tunic. There’s a cold breeze tonight, but the loss of covering doesn’t bother Obi-Wan so much as the look on Satine’s face does when she sees the makeshift bandage covering his forearm. It’s made out of his spare robe, the one that was partitioned a long time ago into small slivers of fabric which have since served as bandages for all three of them at some point or another.

Obi-Wan is grateful for the dark brown shade of the standard-issue Jedi robes, because the darkness of the fabric hides the stain of blood well.

He unwraps the bandage with far more care than he’d utilized when rolling up his sleeve, and even then, it’s hard to keep himself from wincing when the fabric of his bandage brushes against a particularly sensitive area of his wound, but he tries to keep any facial expressions to a minimum, the same with any noises, any indication of pain whatsoever, because it will be bad enough for Satine to see the wound itself.

Of course, Obi-Wan hadn’t lied when he’d said it wasn’t bad. It _wasn’t,_ really—not by Jedi standards, and even for regular folk, it’s not severe enough to be of too much concern. But it does hurt _,_ and more than that, it’s Force-awful _ugly,_ a jagged, uneven gash that extends from his wrist to his elbow, colored a stark, bright red, given how _fresh_ it still is.

When Satine sees it, Obi-Wan hears the sharp inhale of breath. It’s a moment before she speaks.

“ _Ben,_ ” she breaths out, at once an apology and an admonishment, and Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“It’s alright.” This time, the words have more firmness behind them, more confidence. “I mean it, Satine. It could be worse.”

Not exactly the _best_ thing he could’ve said, Obi-Wan knows, because that will only start Satine thinking on just how much worse it could’ve been—but Satine’s face doesn’t twist in a grimace like he’s expecting, like it has many times before, when their conversations have veered towards similar subjects. Instead, there’s something distant in her gaze, still focused as it is on that ugly cut down his arm, and her voice is chillingly quiet.

“It’s because of me.”

Obi-Wan knows what that means. _It’s because of me that you are hurt. It’s because of me that you could have been hurt worse. It’s because of me that you had to fight, it’s because of me that you could be killed._

He thinks, _oh._ And then, immediately after— _kriff._

“It’s not because of you.” That statement is true. Even if the blade of the bounty hunter had been headed for Satine, it was Obi-Wan’s choice, his decision, to step before it, to push Satine back into the dirt and take on the hunter himself. He’d seen the way the blade had been raised, had known it would have come down on Satine, had he not stepped in—and he’d known that it would come down on him, if he _did_ step in, and he’d done it anyways, and would do it again.

He’s suffered worse, though he doesn’t think telling Satine that would bring her much comfort. The bounty hunter certainly suffered worse, once Obi-Wan had finished with him. He’s tempted to tell her _that,_ but he knows Satine better than he ever has, now, and knows that she is not the kind to take comfort in the suffering of _anyone,_ even if that _anyone_ is a bounty hunter who had only the utmost determination to take her life.

Instead, he reaches out with the hand of his good arm, to hold Satine’s upper arm, to take her attention, draw her focus, and he speaks again, this time stressing the words. “It’s not because of you, Satine.”

Satine looks like she wants to pull away from his touch, but she doesn’t. Her eyes meet Obi-Wan’s, though, and he can see that the tears have started again. “How can you say that?”

Obi-Wan knows what she is thinking. Obi-Wan did what he had done, had stepped forward into the path of a weapon, for the sole purpose of her protection. She’s not wrong.

But there’s more to it than that.

“I didn’t do it because I had to. I… I did it because I _wanted_ to.” It’s the only way Obi-Wan can think to phrase this, to make her understand what it is she’s not seeing—and it’s not her fault that she can’t see it, because _Force knows_ Obi-Wan’s been awkward enough to make it anything but obvious. He needs her to understand this.

He didn’t step forward because of his mandate to protect the life of Satine Kryze, Duchess of Mandalore. He didn’t step forward because Qui-Gon might have been disappointed if he hadn’t. He didn’t step forward because of his sacred duty as a Jedi, to protect and defend innocent life with his own, if he must.

He stepped forward for the sole reason that he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing Satine hurt. He stepped forward because the thought of _any_ pain, any harm, however superficial, being inflicted on her was something he couldn’t face, couldn’t allow.

He stepped forward, Obi-Wan knows, because he is _attached,_ he is that one thing a Jedi is meant _not_ to be—but for all that being attached is a grave offense in the Code that Obi-Wan has learned since childhood, for all that he wants to be the perfect Jedi, to serve the Order that he loves so much as best as he can, Obi-Wan can’t deny the simple fact that is his attachment to Satine Krze, Duchess of Mandalore—nor can he even bring himself to feel _bad_ for it right now, with Satine looking at him through still-shining eyes. All he feels is relief that _this time,_ at least, Satine is not hurt—and maybe that relief goes to his head, because what he says next is _truly_ bold, a statement that he never would have made were this conversation any less fraught with emotion.

“You would have done the same for me.”

It’s a statement. It’s not a question. It’s not a question, but Satine looks at him for a few moments, her tears stilling, her lips in a thin line—and then she nods, and Obi-Wan feels his heart break in a new way.

He hopes Satine will never, _ever_ do the same for him, and then he thinks that maybe he understands a fraction of what she’s feeling. Even if Obi-Wan has assured her that she’s not to blame, hearing such a thing and _believing_ it are two starkly different realities—and she still has to see him hurt, after all.

“It doesn’t hurt so bad,” Obi-Wan says, after a moment, when the silence stretches too long, and he extends his arm a little as if to prove it, to let her _see_ just how casually and calmly he’s handling his injury. He holds in the hiss that the movement stirs up. “It looks far worse than it is.”

Satine’s gaze falls again to the wound. It’s still just as ugly.

“I mean it, Satine.”

She hesitates, and then looks up at him. “I know.”

She doesn’t sound like she believes him, not really—but Obi-Wan will take a victory where he can get one. If Satine isn’t willing to fight over this anymore, then it means that she’s convinced enough that the gash on his arm isn’t a big deal, and that even if it were, the last person he would blame for it would be _her._

“You should cover it again.” Now, it’s Obi-Wan’s turn to look up, half in innocent surprise—after all, she’d only just asked to _see_ it—and Satine meets his gaze with her lips pressed thinly together once more, like she’s trying very hard to hold something back. “It will heal faster.”

She’s right. Keeping it covered, for now, is the best option, and the one most likely to decrease the odds that his arm finds itself infected. Obi-Wan pretends that’s the reason why he agrees, rather than thinking again about how absolutely _ugly_ the cut is, uneven in its shape and such an awful color to boot.

“I should,” Obi-Wan agrees quietly—and then his good hand leaves Satine’s arm to reach for his bandage again, only he doesn’t start wrapping it around his arm himself. Instead, he holds it out in the space between him and Satine. She watches it appraisingly for one long moment before she takes it in hand, shifting where she sits—and then she is reaching for Obi-Wan’s arm, and he closes his eyes to brace for the discomfort as she begins to wrap the bandage over his injury once again.

Satine’s hands aren’t shaking anymore. Whether that’s because he’s actually succeeded in comforting her or simply because of necessity, Obi-Wan isn’t sure, but he’s grateful nevertheless. Satine is more like a Jedi than Obi-Wan knows she will ever willingly admit, and even when she is afraid, or when her emotions threaten to overwhelm her, she does not allow anything, even the slightest tremble of her hand, to come in the way of duty.

That’s what he admires most about her.

Obi-Wan is pulled abruptly out of his thoughts by a sharp burst of pain shooting up his arm as the fabric of his bandage, even with Satine’s gentleness, brushes against his cut the wrong way. He can’t help it—he hisses in a quick breath, eyes shutting tight, and regrets it almost immediately when he feels Satine’s fingers freeze, feels a shockwave of her emotion— _regret, fear, sadness, guilt_ —in the Force.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes out, voice taut with emotion, and Obi-Wan is shaking his head before she’s even finished, forcing his eyes open again and raising his hand to rest on her arm.

“It wasn’t you,” he insists, quiet but firm, ignoring the pain lancing up his arm with considerable effort. “It’s alright.” It hurts like _kriff,_ but even through that pain, Obi-Wan knows that none of this is Satine’s fault, that she was as gentle with him as humanly possible.

It’s clear from the look in Satine’s eyes, still quietly pained, that she doesn’t believe him, but after a moment she gives up the argument, seemingly knowing that this is one that he won’t back down on—which, of course, she’s right about, because he _won’t_ —and returns to the task at hand, her movements even slower now than before.

It feels like forever until the bandage is secured again, in equal parts because of the discomfort of having his wound handled and the ache in his chest that comes from knowing Satine is still hurting, that his meager attempts at comfort haven’t been enough. He longs to do something more, but _what_ to do, he doesn’t know. This… _thing_ between them (he still doesn’t have a word for it, because none of the words he can think of seem quite right for what they have) is so new, and so unlike anything Obi-Wan has known, that he still feels like he is toeing the line, learning how to balance his onslaught of worry for Satine with her fierce independence, how to simultaneously make himself vulnerable, something that has _never_ come easily to him, while remaining strong enough to support her when she needs it.

Neither of them speaks immediately, not while Satine gingerly lowers Obi-Wan’s arm until it’s resting against his leg. Obi-Wan wants to speak, only he still doesn’t know what to say, what will be enough to comfort Satine, if _anything_ will even be enough to comfort her, after all that’s happened, or if this is something that words won’t reach, that only time can fix—

“You should rest,” he finally says, gaze meeting hers. To his mild surprise, Satine’s eyes don’t show the spark of annoyance they usually would at a comment like that, and she doesn’t look like she’s about to chew him out, to insist that she’s _just fine, thank you—_

Instead, her eyes remain steadily on his, something that Obi-Wan has only recently become familiar with in them, that hesitation that indicates she’s about to take a risk, make herself vulnerable—

“Stay with me?”

Her voice is so quiet that it stuns Obi-Wan all over again, and it’s a moment before the shock fades and he’s nodding quickly.

“Yes,” he says, not wasting a moment in thought. “Of course.” _Anything you need._ Anything to take away even a fraction of the burden she’s carrying.

For all that Obi-Wan has readily responded to her quiet request, Satine still looks rather uncertain for having made it. She shifts to lay down on her sleeping roll all the same, though, and Obi-Wan moves, too, so that he’s sitting now at her side, and though they’re still learning to navigate the recent changes in their relationship, their hands find each other so naturally, fingers intertwining, that Obi-Wan no longer feels quite so out of his depth.

Satine gets as comfortable as she can on the sleeping mat—which is to say not very comfortable at all, because the thin material does very little to soften the hardness of the ground— and looks up at him again, as though Obi-Wan might have changed his mind in the brief time it’s taken her to settle, might have decided that he’d rather they stay up together, talk together, like they have so many times before.

He hasn’t changed his mind. “Rest,” he implores her, gently, carefully, and when he worries again that she might protest, “I’ll be right here.” He wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else.

Satine watches him a moment longer, and then nods, either satisfied with his company or simply resigned to her fate. When she closes her eyes in an attempt to find sleep, Obi-Wan’s shoulders relax, some of the worry leaving him.

Only a moment later she’s opening them again, looking up at him, and he tenses immediately, ready for whatever might be wrong, whatever tightly-wound emotion they’ll be addressing now—

“Your robe,” Satine says, quiet but clearly worried, if the furrow to her brow is any indication, and her body goes stiff like she wants to sit up. His robe is still tucked around her shoulders, shrouding her body, protecting her from the gentle but cool breeze of the night.

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan dismisses. “Keep it.” Maybe it will comfort her. Maybe it will keep her warm in the night. Maybe it will do nothing, but Obi-Wan knows that whatever use Satine finds for his robe tonight, it can’t possibly hurt her, and so he’s willing to gamble on these _maybes._

Obi-Wan knows that if Satine’s eyelids were less heavy, if the day they’d endured had been any less difficult, she would’ve protested. She would’ve insisted that he needed it more than she did, that it was silly for her to keep it when Master Jinn would only raise an eyebrow at the sight, come the morning. Instead, she looks at him again, something in her eyes that Obi-Wan can’t interpret, some look that he _hasn’t_ grown familiar with yet—but just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone, and she’s nodding in silent acquiescence, her body relaxing as she lays down again.

Obi-Wan feels a bit guilty to be relieved at her lack of argument, knowing that it comes only as a result of the storm of emotions no doubt continuing to wreak havoc on her, but part of him can’t help it, because he’s tired, too, and his arm is hurting again. No doubt, his own body could use some rest—and he’ll get some, he decides, after he sees Satine off to sleep. That should come first.

Satine’s eyes close again. Obi-Wan finds that through no conscious effort of his own, he relaxes just as gradually as she does, the tension in his shoulders melting away as the small frown of her lips eases, the creases of worry in his forehead smoothing as her breathing evens out. After a while, Satine is asleep, and Obi-Wan knows this, but pretends he doesn’t, because he’s supposed to turn his attention to his _own_ rest once Satine is sleeping, and he doesn’t want to do that just yet. Instead, he remains at her side, allowing himself just a while longer, because _surely_ it can’t hurt.

Time passes, and his breaths eventually come to match the subtle rise and fall of Satine’s chest. His hand never leaves hers, just as his eyes never leave her face, soaking in the sight of her at peace, even if this peace is only artificial, only temporary, brought on by her sleep—it’s _peace_ all the same, and Obi-Wan cherishes it, after too long seeing her lips pressed together, her brow knit, her eyes nervous and gaze fleeting. He hopes that maybe one day, that this peace will start to stick around for longer, that all those other, ugly emotions—the fear, the sadness, the guilt—will become the rare ones. Maybe, he thinks, that day will come when this is all over, when there’s no more bounty hunters, no more running, when Satine is back where she’s meant to be on the throne of her world, fighting for her people rather than for her survival. He likes that image, enough so for his mind to make another leap, to allow for another hope—

_Maybe I’ll be there to see it._

It’s a silly thought. It’s an _impossible_ thought, because she has her duty, and he has his, and once all this running is over, they have two separate lives to return to. But it makes Obi-Wan smile long after he’s finally gathered the strength to gently extricate his hand from Satine’s, to move to his own sleeping mat and lay down. _Silly,_ and _impossible_. Obi-Wan glances towards Satine again one last time, watching in the dim light of the fire as she sleeps just as soundly as before, only a few feet away, her face so _peaceful_. He’s still worried about Satine and about the mission, his arm still aches in pain, and now is not the time for daydreams and imagination— but just this one time, in the quiet of night and after a long, hard day, Obi-Wan lets himself imagine.

His smile follows him long into his sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> if you did, feel free to have some fun and leave a kudos or a comment! they make me smile <3
> 
> if you want to see me talk a lot about star wars and a bit about writing, follow me on twitter (@G0NKDROID) or on tumblr (@dotnscal)
> 
> thanks again for reading :^)


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